


A Hiding Place

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22416229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: The Carnival is in full swing, but Dandolo can't allow himself to rest. He needs to find someone first.
Relationships: Dandolo | Merchant Prince & Niesha (Technomancer)
Kudos: 2
Collections: Hello Earth? This Is Mars...





	A Hiding Place

The first Carnival night has started three hours ago, and festivities are ongoing, as they will be for a long time, but they have scattered all over the city already. This storm season has quietened down into mildness, and so the Carnival—the songs, dances, laughter—is louder than the winds rushing over and through the canyons. The city compensates with a storm of its own.

Dandolo would gladly hole up in the Palace: the fan-dance is done and nobody would begrudge him celebrating in his own way, with tea and a book, sitting on the roof and overlooking the city.

But.

He has a problem.

He tried to keep an eye on both Niesha and Gloria when the celebrations started, but it wasn’t easy, with him needed in the middle of the opening dance. He could have refused, of course, but to dance with the sandfans, with drums beating behind him and rider horns wailing and roaring throughout the canyon… He didn’t.

Gloria plunged herself into the heat of the night, eager like many others broken out of the ‘re-education’ camp to forget herself in the celebration, and seeing Goal hovering nearby, keeping a gentle eye, Dandolo was assured Gloria was safe.

He lost the sight of Niesha, however, after the fan-dance. He doesn’t know which of the two worries him the most, the outgoing, loud Gloria or the quiet Niesha, but at least Gloria has been easy to find so far: she keeps to people, large gatherings, as though afraid she might be snatched again if she were alone. She avoids the Palace, with its many quiet, private corners.

Niesha… Niesha doesn’t let go of the knife Dandolo gave to her during the raid on the camp. The Carnival is a time of gift exchange, and he hopes to give her a belt and sheath for the knife. If he can find her.

Drums beat behind him, the sound rolling like a quake, juddering through his bones.

He stops in the middle of a dark street, closes his eyes and allows the distant noises sweep over him.

Where might she be?..

Where would he himself go to hide from the noise and the blur?..

He turns his steps to the Palace.

He chooses indirect routes, scaling walls, though his movements are slightly encumbered by the ceremonial cloak pinned at his throat. He leaps between platforms over four-level drops, pulls himself up on the edges of walkways, bypassing conventional ladders. Taking joy in the simplicity of movement.

He enters the Palace through the upper gallery, scaring away a lounging manta, and has to catch his cloak threatening to slide down his shoulder.

The storm season is not as heavy on him as usual, but a bigger storm is forming on the south, and it might bring him down with its weight—for now, he is full of the energy of it, and of his city.

He goes inside, and the sounds of the Carnival grow distant as though in a dream, the Palace enveloping him like the cloak. And from the gallery, he sees a small figure curled up on the chest just to the side of the alcove. She cannot be seen from the balcony or the guest hall—but he can see Niesha from his vantage point.

He moves off the gallery and down onto the balcony. He could have dropped right to her hiding place, but it is not right and he makes some noise deliberately to alert her of his presence.

Niesha doesn’t look up.

He doesn’t go too close, leans on the rails just off the side, his elbows on them, the pose parting the cloak, leaving his hands in the open, where she can see them. He’s aware he’s a physically imposing man, and he wants to look as non-threatening here as possible.

Niesha is sitting with her knees drawn to her chest, her arms around them, her forehead on her arms. She’s wearing a simple undyed shirt with long wide sleeves, and short pants and sandals, having burnt the clothes she wore at the camp,—but nothing colourful and nothing of the distinctive Noctian cuts.

‘How are you feeling, Niesha?’

She still doesn’t look at him. ‘Why aren’t you with everyone?’ she murmurs into her arms.

‘I’m tired and I can’t endure the loudness for too long.’ He keeps his voice soft, but not too gentle. Just neutral though inviting.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be there? As the Prince?’

‘It is not necessary. I take part because I want to, but I’m free to celebrate however I want.’

‘And now?’

‘Now, I’m tired.’ He considers offering Niesha tea.

Niesha is very thin, her sharp elbows are hidden in the fabric now, but he was told it is not critical anymore.

‘Why did you put off the Carnival?’ Niesha demands. ‘Isn’t it an important celebration?’

‘We wanted you to feel included. The storm season isn’t easy as it is.’

‘Trying to play the good hosts for the poor, _poor_ souls from the camp. Right.’

‘Yes,’ he replies simply. He suspects she doesn’t feel included—or doesn’t want to be included. ‘You don’t like the celebrations?’

‘Too loud. Too many people. Though many pockets to pick.’ Niesha tightens her arms around her knees, then looks at him. And looks him up and down. ‘What’s this you are wearing?’

‘A cloak.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘I can see that.’

This small gesture makes him smile. He touches the pin made from a polished mole claw. ‘It’s a ceremonial garment, a chief’s cloak. Pretty heavy and cumbersome—but that is the point.’ He undoes the pin and lets the cloak slide down his shoulders into his hands, then, moving slowly, goes closer to Niesha, kneels in front of the chest and drapes the cloak around her.

She watches him with a frown, then glances sideways at the cloak as he pins it in place. ‘What the fuck is this for? And damn, it’s heavy.’

He sits down on the carpet, cross-legged, leans back on the banisters, bringing himself lower than Niesha’s eye level, holds his hands on his lap. ‘Please don’t swear.’

She bites her lip. She doesn’t take the cloak off. ‘Are you trying to play the good adult with me?’

‘I’m not playing anything.’

‘Then what’s this for? _You_ are the boss.’

‘Anyone can be “the boss”. You might become the Prince one day yourself. If you decide to stay in Noctis.’

‘You meant, the Princess?’

‘No, the Prince. It is used regardless of gender, because it is a… mistranslation. The proper term is—’

‘I heard. The Do-xe?’

‘Yes. _Dux_. The one who leads. Some say it entails being a military commander, but Noctis disagrees. You don’t command the army. You are appointed through trust, and it’s a heavy burden, to lead.’

‘Ain’t you a talker. Лапшу умеешь на уши вешать.’

He smiles. ‘Я люблю лашпу, особенно со специями. Words are my primary tool.’

Niesha shakes her head. ‘They aren’t enough.’

‘I try to pair them with actions.’

‘You have to punch,’ she says dully. ‘To bite, to stab…’ Her shoulders move under the cloak, and he sees her gripping the handle of the knife in her lap.

‘I’ll use words for as long as possible. But you are right. Sometimes words aren’t enough, and some people deserve to be punched for their words. Or more.’

Niesha glances at him quickly. He maintains his relaxed pose—but she might be remembering that he was the one leading the raid, and he was the one holding one of her tormentors as she was using the knife he’d given.

‘You _are_ playing the good adult.’

‘I’m sorry if my actions or words make you feel this way. It is not my intention. Please, tell me how to correct myself?’

Niesha looks him up and down again. ‘Will you answer all of my questions?’

‘If I’m able—and if not, I’ll try to find someone who can.’

‘What’s the speed of your flying things?’

‘Two-hundred kilometres per hour south of Noctis, where the winds are the strongest. Without cargo.’

‘What’s the zigzags on the edge of this cloak?’

‘Paint.’

‘Why aren’t you wearing a shirt? Why the vest?’

‘It can be turned into a shirt.’ He puts his left shoulder forward. ‘You see? Sleeves can be attached to these buttons. I needed my arms free for sandfans.’

‘But you wore the cloak?’

‘As per tradition.’

‘What are you celebrating during the Carnival?’

‘Being alive. Having a home in the people we hold dear. And also, we celebrate the storms. Without winds, our lives would have been different. …Are you crying?’

Niesha sniffles, and looks aside, blinking quickly. ‘Stop playing the concerned adult.’

‘I am concerned and, I think, I can be considered an adult. You don’t have to participate in the celebration if you don’t feel like it. The goal is to have fun also. You don’t have to wear our clothes, eat our food, you don’t have to learn our words. You don’t even have to stay here. When the storm season passes, I will take a ’sail and fly you anywhere you want.’

‘I don’t give a f— I don’t care,’ Niesha says, wiping her cheeks, ‘about your… your words.’

‘You don’t have to. And maybe you don’t believe them, maybe you never will. I’m sorry. There is no amount of good words that can put to right what has been done to you.’

‘As if you know!’

‘I don’t know what you suffered. But I have my own experiences I can draw upon. I have imagination. I have compassion.’

He gets up—and Niesha jerks. ‘Where are you doing?’

‘To make tea.’ He offers her a smile. ‘My throat hurts from all the words—doesn’t yours?’

She looks away, the panic in her eyes fading, then lowers her feet to the floor.

‘Yes. It does. I need some tea now.’


End file.
